Love Begins With a Name
by MadameLunaRaven
Summary: A short told from Erik's perspective explaining the origin of his name as well as the origin of his love for Christine Daae.


**A/N: I've been rediscovering my love for all things Phantom lately and thought I'd take some time in between my current project(Stolen Magic) in order to begin to test the waters of Phanfiction. Before I embark on any large story arcs I thought I'd start trying to get Erick's character figured out, for he is certainly a difficult—yet marvelous and complex—character to write. This idea came along when I was re-reading some select scenes from Leroux's novel. Unlike many adaptations, Erick refers to himself in third person, almost as if he has different personalities. It got me wondering just how Erick got his name. It is not a grand name, for if Erick were to choose his own name I would expect it to be grand. In the book it says that he stumbled upon the name by accident but I chose a different explanation. That's where this idea came from and I decided to expand it into a detailed account of when exactly Erick began to love Christine. I can't speak for my fellow phans but I've always been bothered by how poorly the subject of Erick's love for Christine is explored. Does he love her for her voice? Her looks? Does he, who idolizes her like an angel(ironic, as she herself believes him to be a genuine angel), hope that by obtaining something forever denied to him(beauty and innocence) that he might escape his living hell? I decided to try and answer these questions. Let me know what you think. I want to make sure I depict his character well before I embark on any big story projects**.

Erik was the only thing my mother gave to me, aside from misery. At times I hated the title. I loathed what it represented, for in my mind it was surely meant to be a taunt; one final attempt by my mother to dehumanize me more than my mortal mask ever could. For Erik was a normal name—an unblemished name. It both taunted what I was not and what I never would be. For surely a man dubbed Erik would lead a normal life while a Quasimodo would be doomed to fulfil his namesake. Yet for one brief moment in the naiveté of my youth I thought just maybe I could become what my name promised—a self fulfilling prophecy if you will. This is why I hold this name. I did not elect to adopt a grander title not claim a surname as I have no family I wish to claim as my own and,twisted as fates are, I am already grand and do not require the assistance of a moniker in order to excel. No, I keep Erik in the vain hope—for hope has earned little place in my life—that someday someone might call me sweetly and mean it. That it will be just Erik they call, not his genius or his array of masks. Merely Erik for Erik.

I do not think I loved her when first we met through the veil between our worlds. For then I was merely a lonely girl's Angel, a remnant of her dead father long returned to the earth. Erik an angel! If only my mother could have known what fate had in store for me. Would she have treated her poor misshapen child with a more benevolent temper I wonder? No, I think not. Rather, she would laugh at me as she always did. She would laugh between cowering at how the devilish abomination produced from her womb was masquerading as some seraphic guardian. Christine however, dear trusting Christine, knew nothing of my mortal mask. She knew only my voice—heaven's voice, she called it. She knew only trust, never having been victim to the true face of the world. She knew only love and love her angel she did. But not Erik. Never Erik. For my part I do not know when love—bitterest of all emotions for my hardened heart—crept into my soul. A love for her voice I had always fostered. I knew from the moment the first melody escaped her lips and echoed through the halls of the Palais Garnier that her voice would be my finest instrument. I would care for it, nurture it, and tune it to utter perfection. I could be harsh sometimes but are not the sweetest sounding instruments ones that have been tried again and again? And all the while, even when I was harsh, she loved her dear angel. Fascinated by the change in her own voice she was quick to realize the potential in that magnificent instrument just as I had. She obediently labored to please me, all at once pleasing herself with her progress and maturity. Perhaps I was found by love when she first took stage and earned the adoration and envy of the lowly crowd. No, that was a vain love. I was enraptured in my finest creation and proud that—without ever being aware—the insipid operagoers were being enveloped by the masterpiece of the hated _Fantôme de l'Opéra_. She would become my beautiful mask and my genius—the only thing my forsaken life has allowed me claim to—would be known to the world. Alas, they did not know Erik's genius. They knew only Christine's, and some more knowledgeable Parisians knew to credit her faceless tutor. While dear Christine thanked me repeatedly and sought only my gratitude, it was not Erik's that she was seeking. It was the approval of her dead father that she desired and I happily played the part for awhile, never daring to hope for more.

At last I've discovered the cause of my love. It was not when she excelled under my tutelage or when she made my genius known though these were certainly factors in softening the shell around my heart. No, it was when she first uttered my name, my true name, that love finally crept in. And once there, love quickly set off a chain reaction of other emotions, both sinister and beautiful. It was during one of the blissful sessions before she was exposed to the monstrosity that is my mortal mask and stirred the beast within. We were rehearsing _Casta Diva_, a number deceptively simple to the uneducated listener but possessed of an almost labyrinthine challenge for the one performing it. Yet I knew she was ready for I had taught her well. She had been nervous when she began, though years under my tutelage granted her the professionalism to work past physical and emotional discomforts and ground herself in the music. Gradually, her voice surpassed earthly perfection and soared into the heavens, executing the crescendo with nothing less than angelic precision. Whereas once she would have only felt secure after receiving my praise, she now exuded enough confidence to know when she had done well. Still, out of habit and respect she turned her warm eyes towards me—for even though I was hidden from view she was uncannily adept at detecting my general location—and asked,

"How was it maestro? Do you think I'm ready to make my debut?"

Though we both knew that she had been ready to sing a lead in the chorus for quite sometime, nothing gave me greater pleasure than to praise my pupil's success. Admittingly, praising her was also a way to compliment my own skills. My pride in her far outweighed my vanity however and I gazed on her face through the mirror separating us and said,

"Never have I heard Norma sung with so much care and attention. There is little more I can teach you now for you have learned the most vital skill—no, the most vital attribute a true musician can own. You lived the music. If those ignoramuses that fancy themselves managers do not discard that shrill harpy of a woman and cast you as lead in their next production then they will have proven, once and for all, their ineptitude regarding all things artistic."

Her mouth formed a perfect smile and her cheeks bloomed into a beautiful shade of pink in response to my candid praise. Knowing that our lesson was over—for I rarely lingered to converse with her as I was too unsure in my social skills and ever fearful that I would somehow ruin the only light in my dark life—I was preparing to make my exit when I heard her quiet voice.

"May I ask you a question _mon ange?_"

"You may ask me anything" I replied, though in truth there were some things that I would not be prepared to answer. My life had been one of loneliness and madness, and I felt that such emotions should not taint one so pure.

"You have guided me for many years now and I'm sure you must know me almost as well as I know myself. I've never confided so much in another soul, save perhaps my father."

At mention of her father, her voice faltered slightly. While it had been many years since his death the memory of him still weighed heavily on her thoughts. Clearing her throat, she continued with renewed confidence.

"Therefor, considering how well you know me, it hardly seems fair that I know so little of you."

"What is it you would ask of me my Christine?" I asked apathetically, takings care not to reveal how this line of questioning unnerved me.

"Nothing grand really, and nothing you ought not to give. I would simply ask your name."

"I am known by many names. I am the Angel of Music, I am the Maestro and the Muse" I stated plainly, failing to understand the nature of her question. Afterall, she had known me as Angel or Maestro for many years. Why she suddenly wanted a new moniker was beyond my comprehension. When she next spoke, I finally understood her intent.

"Yes _mon ange_, I know your titles. For what you have given me are titles. What I would like to know is your name—that is, the name of your person and not the name of your profession. Who is the Maestro when he is not teaching?"

Stupefied, I took a few moments to consider my answer carefully. While I retained my birth name during my youth because of a juvenile idealism and hope for a life that never came, as an adult I seldom used it. Few have ever known it and those who have reside in distant countries far beyond the French borders. In some ways, I think I had grown to fear my name. When Christine called me her Angel I was allowed to dream for brief moments at a time that I was something I could never be. Erik however, which I once thought would be a name that I could use to change my destiny, had become synonymous with what I really was—a demon pretending to be in God's good graces. Patient Christine, unaware of my internal conflict, waited for my reply. Eventually I could bare her trusting gaze no longer and came to the conclusion that it would do me no harm to grant her this one request. I had already spent the entirety of our relationship—if you could even call it that—lying to her about the very nature of my being. Allotting her one simple truth was more than fair. After my brief deliberation had concluded I replied,

"My name is Erik. No surname—" I said, guessing her next question. "Just Erik."

Christine sat still for a moment, possibly allowing herself to grow accustomed to her Maestro's true name. Tilting her head, she smiled once more and said,

"_Merci_ Erik, _mon ange_."

My heart skipped a few beats, startled by how intoxicating it was to hear her voice—the voice of my own angel, for surely she was truer to the term than I was—utter a name that once held so much hope for me but had long since been discarded after decades of disappointment. She could not have possibly have known what it meant to me to hear her thank Erik and not the Maestro. For the first time in my life, I felt grateful to my mother for giving me my name. For the first time in my life, someone dear to me acknowledged Erik and not one of the many guises I wore. From that moment on, even through the turbulence to follow, love took up permanent residence in my heart and I knew it would never relinquish it's home.

**Now that you're through,**

**Please be kind and review. (see what I did there? SEE?)**


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